Second Debut
by Time Traverser
Summary: Through the combined efforts of Theodore Roosevelt and Canada, America attends his first World Meeting in 115 years. Matthew has hopes, but he cannot shield his brother from the other Nations. One-shot; Rated T because I said so. And as always, NO ROMANCE!


Canada took a deep breath, his rattled nerves having less to do with the upcoming meeting and much more to do with who'd be attending.

"What's with the dog collar?"

"It's not a dog collar," the northern Nation insisted, turning to face his brother. "It's a…symbolic thing. This shows that I still have ties with the British Empire." He indicated the small embroidered Union Jack situated near the silver clasp. He wasn't sure whether he'd been imagining it or not, but he was almost prepared to swear that the collar had become lighter since 1867.

"Okay…so explain to me how that isn't essentially a dog collar."

Canada bristled. "I'm not a dog."

America wisely bit his tongue against whatever retort had undoubtedly popped up in his mind, and changed the subject. "Whatever, Golden Boy. What am I supposed to do at this thing, anyways? I didn't stick around long enough to find out, last time."

"You're a completely sovereign Nation," Canada shrugged. "I don't know what your category does with their time. I'm usually with other dominions or small-timers like colonies and possessions…things devolve into card games and scar comparisons pretty quickly." He appraised his brother's clothes with a critical eye. "Are you really wearing _that_ to the World Meeting?"

America looked down at his simple white shirt, dark trousers and vest with a slight frown. He idly kicked his booted heel against the wood floor, as though wondering whether something were amiss with his shoes as well. "What's wrong with it?"

"Add a bolo tie and a revolver, and you'd be any character from a dime-novel western," Canada answered drily. "This'll only confirm all the rumors of your being some kind of outlaw."

America smirked cheekily. "Well I'd hate to disappoint expectation," he said with a distinctly Texan drawl.

"Of course not, you complete show-off," Canada sighed. "At least try to avoid offending people to the point of war. Some have a hard time differentiating a naturally blunt and rather abrasive personality with a belief influenced by their peoples' general opinion."

America rolled his eyes. "God, I'm just getting more excited with every word."

"At least Britain hasn't objected to us staying in the same room for the week." Canada glanced back at the mirror one last time to ensure that everything was in its proper place. "Otherwise you'd _really_ be lonely."

"That probably has something to do with the fact that you haven't mentioned it," America accused with a scoff. "Or that he's in some fancy hotel near the actual Meeting place while we're at this inn.

Canada allowed himself a half-smile. "Maybe. So let's get this over with, eh?"

* * *

"I'm surprised you elected to attend, considering who'll be joining us."

England drummed his fingers on the head of his sword-cane. This conversation seemed oddly familiar…Ah, well. It'd be futile to play dumb anyways; he was very painfully aware of who France was talking about. "Mr. United States and I will only be in the same room for one session. One would hope that two generally disagreeing Nations can at least be civil for the course of a meeting."

France flicked an imaginary speck from his expensive jacket. "That depends on his state of mind, _non_? Rumor has it that he's a mad cowboy outlaw."

"I'll bet Spain started that one," the British Empire scoffed. "Still sore about that little war of his. Especially since that steam-engine of a man became the President of the United States."

France hummed thoughtfully, but said nothing more.

* * *

Canada squeezed his shoulder reassuringly before disappearing among the finely dressed strangers that lingered in the ostentatiously decorated courtyard. His watch said the meetings were due to start in ten minutes, and his brother had said that now was a good time to 'mingle'.

But America really didn't want to mingle with people who wore gold thread like a military badge. So he just folded his arms, leaned against a wall, and waited with closed eyes for this nerve-wracking day to just be _over_.

Alas, such was not to be, because it wasn't even five past minutes later when someone tapped on his shoulder and said with a very distinctly accented voice, "Excuse me, this courtyard is reserved. No loitering."

America cracked open one eye. Round face, scraggly straw-colored hair, sharp green eyes, and a rifle slung shamelessly over his shoulder despite them being disallowed. "I'm supposed to be here. Who are you?"

Instead of answering, the stranger's eyes narrowed. "If you're truly supposed to be here, then where's your invitation?"

Remembering the stern orders from his president to not seek enemies here, America swallowed his irritation and withdrew the gilded paper that'd gotten him across the ocean in the first place, and handed it to the inquirer.

One dark eyebrow raised at the person it was addressed to, but that was it. The man nodded as he gave it back. "You're not what I expected, Mister United States."

"Just America is fine." The western Nation felt himself grimace at the formal use of his name. "And you are…?"

"You may call me Switzerland," the European said.

America inclined his head politely. This was the host. His eyes gravitated to the rifle again. "Doesn't the committee forbid weapons?"

"No one in their right mind pays any attention to that," Switzerland answered with a dismissive wave.

"Oh good, I thought I was the only one," America exhaled before he even knew he was saying it. He caught himself too late, and bit his lip. "Er…"

Thankfully, Switzerland only seemed lightly amused. "You'll catch on before long. Then I'll have to hate you like all the other bickering fools here."

America found himself smiling. This guy was alright. "I 'ppreciate the honesty."

Switzerland only returned his smile with a tired shake of his head. "Then what are you even _doing_ here?" He didn't wait for an answer to his muttered question as he walked off in the direction of a smaller blond girl lingering nervously near the exit.

America watched him go, a bit relieved. He'd survived his first encounter. Hopefully now he'd be left alo-

"You have a nice smile."

America jumped halfway out of his boots, spinning to see a shorter brunette looking at him with open curiosity and hands clasped tightly behind his back. "You are America, _si_?"

"Yes." America was afraid of saying much else. That expression was just so innocent, and he didn't really know what else to say. _'_ 'Si' _? He doesn't really sound Spanish…Portuguese, maybe?'_

"My name is Northern Italy, but you can call me Feliciano!" The happy Nation bounced a bit. "I've been wanting to meet you ever since Francis told me about you. Can I paint you sometime?"

America blinked. He remembered long ago England telling him that human names were supposed to be special, and only to be used in the presence of an actual human, family, or close friends. Not only had Italy offered his human name, but he apparently also wanted America to sit for a painting. And they'd known each other for less than thirty seconds. However his mind latched onto one thing in particular. "France told you about me?"

"Of course!" The Italian's hands appeared from behind his back as he warmed up to his subject. They gesticulated animatedly as he spoke, emphasizing his words. "But he wasn't quite right, was he? You're not skittish at all! And he never told me that you had such a nice smile!"

"Skittish, huh?" America was unable to repress his brief scowl at the description, but forced his expression back into something more benign. _'No enemies. Which means no accidently scaring or insulting the bubbly Italian.'_

Italy caught his flickering expression, and apparently decided that a hug would be the logical course of action. America tensed upon contact, fingers biting into his palm from the restraint it took to stay still. _'We just met. Why are you hugging me?'_

"Don't be angry with me!" the Italian pleaded. "I don't know what I said but I'm sorry and I hope we can still be friends and I'll make you pasta and I-"

" _Feliciano!"_

The babbling stopped, and Italy immediately latched onto the newcomer with equal affection. Then the babbling continued at an even greater speed. "Romano, come meet America because he's not really skittish just kinda closed off but he's actually nice because-" The rest dissolved into rapid Italian that America couldn't make heads or tails of.

The newcomer, who looked like Italy's grumpy duplicate, tolerated the embrace and glared at America as though he'd done something wrong. "This is your fault, isn't it? He was behaving a minute ago."

America put his hands up in figurative surrender. "I didn't do anything. He just introduced himself and ended up hugged me."

"Whatever, _Bastardo_."

America frowned at him. "We _just_ met, and you're calling me a bastard?"

"In my experience, most people are bastards."

Somewhere, a bell rang. The great doors at the end of the courtyard finally opened, and people began filing in. America heaved a mighty sigh, and reluctantly followed the crowd inside. _'I'm so not ready for this.'_

Then something else occurred to him, something he hadn't really noticed until he thought about it.

Italy had his eyes closed the _entire time_.

* * *

"What the hell were you thinking, talking to him?" Romano demanded at hiss, spinning his brother about by the shoulder before they could enter the room that contained the rest of Europe. "You've heard the rumors. He's crazy!"

"We're all at least a little bit crazy," Italy retorted lightly, stunning his twin into silence with his rare insight. Then he continued, "And he wasn't bad. Mostly just lonely."

Romano _knew_ that Italy was much more observant than he acted most of the time. If Feliciano said America wasn't that bad, he was probably right. But still…"That doesn't mean you should hug him when you've just met!"

"I'm sorry for scaring you, _Fratello_."

"You didn't scare me," Romano grunted in sour denial. "Now get inside before we're late. You're blocking the door."

* * *

America felt eyes on him the moment he entered the room. He struggled to keep his face composed under all the scrutiny as he scanned for an empty seat along the large table that was probably as old as it was decorative. He dismayed at where the nearest empty chair was-right between England and France. Thankfully there were two others at the far end of the room, on either side of a really tall man in a scarf and thick jacket despite the agreeable climate. America forced himself to step unhurriedly as he went to take a place next to the strange man, finding him much more preferable to being within touching distance to Britain.

For some reason, people started whispering to each other and exchanging furtive glances the moment America sat down. The big man blinked as though mildly surprised, but the (admittedly creepy) smile remained firmly in place. "You are America, _da_?"

"Yep." America couldn't help shifting under his weighted gaze. "And you are?"

Pale purple eyes shone with something like curiosity. "I am Russia."

Russia…what did he know about Russia? Russians liked fur, and this was the country that'd sold Alaska to him. He vaguely remembered someone saying that the winters could be especially harsh. So…not a whole lot. Still, Russia seemed to be waiting for him to say something, or react. So America offered a polite smile in return. "Nice to meet'cha. Hope we can be friends someday soon, 'cause no one needs more enemies."

The big Nation hummed thoughtfully. "Not many people say that. Even fewer ever actually mean it."

"Well, you ain't givin' me a reason to hate ya so far," America shrugged. "Mind if we keep it that way?"

Russia's smile grew marginally wider. "I do not have friends. Only subordinates. His nose came just inches from America's. His breath was like ice, and he seemed just a little broader in the shoulders than before. "Do you honestly think you can succeed where so many others have failed, and be my equal? A comrade?"

America leaned back as Russia's face came in just a bit too close. "Maybe, if you would stop trying to intimidate me. _Comrades_ don't annoy each other with false fronts."

Someone in the otherwise deathly silent room gasped, and another muttered what might've been a prayer. Russia arched one extremely pale eyebrow, but thankfully straightened in his chair again and regarded America with a new interest. Then he chuckled. "Perhaps we _can_ be friends. You are certainly foolhardy enough."

America breathed deeply, and exhaled through his nose, thankful that the exchange hadn't gone completely sour. This guy was a bit on the weird side of things, but he was also very large and still a relative stranger. Not to mention that Roosevelt would probably kill America if news of a fight breaking out at the World Meeting ever got back to him.

Finally, Switzerland felt it appropriate to stand up. "We gather here today in this World Meeting to discuss whatever it is our own judgments or circumstances find relevant to debate for the sake of preserving our community." Then he heaved a long-suffering sigh and added, "I shouldn't have to mention that if you break it, you pay for it. And illicit affairs are to be saved for your _lodgings_ , not your workplace." He sent a pointed glare in France's direction, to which the only Frenchman smirked. "The floor is now open."

* * *

"Oh, who cares about all that? I've got a hat." Australia waved it for emphasis. "We'll bet for who's going to get caught pashing in the closet this week. I've got my money on France and Norway.

New Zealand and Canada exchanged dubious glances. The island dominion's brow furrowed downward in confusion. "France…and _Norway_ …? What makes you think that?"

"The fact that they haven't done it yet. If you disagree, put your money where your mouth is." He held it out expectantly.

New Zealand rolled his eyes, fishing coins from his pocket and dropping them in. Canada folded his arms and leaned back in his chair, eyes sliding over to where India sat against the wall, silent as always. It was as well, he supposed. The fewer the people involving themselves, the better and more simple everything would be. As Australia and New Zealand fiercely debated, with the threat of heavy objects getting involved becoming more imminent with each counterpoint, Canada allowed his thoughts to wander.

It would be lunch soon, if his calculations were correct. Hopefully America had avoided making enemies so far, and England would be steering clear. Canada had the sense that none of them really wanted to deal with the incredible awkwardness that would ensue.

"What can you tell us about him, Matt?"

"Eh?" The northern Nation blinked, looking in Australia's direction with bewilderment. "What about who?"

"Your brother? Mr. United States?" New Zealand's eyebrows climbed up his forehead. "Have you not been listening this entire time?"

Canada flushed in slight embarrassment. "Sorry."

"You have nothing to apologize for, just tell us about him!" Australia leaned forward eagerly. "Is he crazy like everyone says?"

New Zealand snorted. "This coming from the career crocodile wrestler."

"Shut it," came the immediate snapped retort.

"He's not crazy," Canada defended wearily. "Well-no crazier than he was when we were kids, as far as I can tell. You'd probably get along with him pretty well. He likes doing dangerous stunts, too."

"I've gotta meet him," Australia decided at once, smiling. "I've been looking for someone who can keep up."

"If Alfred hasn't gotten himself kicked out," Canada said dubitably, "I'll introduce you. He isn't quite good with strangers yet."

* * *

' _I hate this place.'_

America didn't remember when this thought first came about-maybe when he heard a muttered conversation in a foreign language that was very obviously about him; he'd heard his name several times. Or perhaps it was when England made that snide remark about agriculturally focused countries and their lack of political propensity.

Whatever the reason, the fact remained that if he didn't get out soon, he was probably going to do something drastic. And wasn't this thing going on for three more days or something stupid like that?

He didn't know who was talking. Some blond guy from Scandinavia with a permanent self-satisfied grin and rebellious hair.

' _I hate this place.'_

There it was again, ringing over and over in his head.

' _Hate-hate-_ hate _it here.'_

He missed home. Where the land knew him, the skies were clear, and the people weren't afraid to smile at strangers.

Speaking of smiles, Spain had been staring at him with a rather malicious glare/grin for the past twenty minutes, patiently tapping away the seconds with his index finger. The Spaniard was planning something, and America wasn't really interested in finding out what it was.

"I hate this place."

Alfred jolted out of his reverie, surprised at Russia voicing his exact thoughts. The tall Nation continued distantly, and quietly.

"They are polite to your face, and speak ill behind your back. The rumors make me sick. They think something is wrong with those of us who want to stay out of it, but isn't it them who are truly mad for continuing this voluntary suffering?"

America looked up at him in slight wonder. "I was told that these meetings are important for some reason."

"They're not," Russia fairly growled, as though the very idea incited him. "I was told the same thing. That I needed to find people I could relate to. This advice does not help someone like me, because I hate the dishonest people. And they hate me because I am all too prepared to _silence_ them."

The western Nation mulled the words over. "...Is it hard? To silence them, I mean."

Russia smiled that unpleasant smile again, showing a brief flash of his incredibly white teeth. "Not if you can swing hard enough."

* * *

When lunch finally arrived, Canada was the first out of the room. Heading in the general direction of the room America had been scheduled to be in, he hoped nothing especially notable had happened. His brother was a magnet for disaster in the best of times.

Then he overheard a conversation between none other than England and France from only a few feet away. They did not see Canada, as there was a large bouquet on an elegant mahogany table obstructing their view.

It was at times like these that Canada was thankful for his natural tendency of being overlooked.

"He's such an ignorant boy. _No one_ makes friends with Russia."

"If you are so concerned then you might warn him-?"

A derisive snort. "Mister United States thinks himself prepared for all the world with throw at him. Far be it from me to give him advice on anything."

"Excuses are unbecoming of you, _Anglettere_."

"Hold your tongue, Frog."

The Canadian sighed inwardly. He _had_ held out the hope that this could be the first step in reconciliation between his brother and his mentor, but it was as though being within the same vicinity again had only compounded the issue, somehow.

Admittedly rather disheartened, he continued on. It wasn't long before he turned a corner and heard a second conversation.

"It's not like that."

"Oh, really? You take what's left of my possessions in the Western Hemisphere through military force and that's _not_ imperialism? You reenter the world stage, and call yourself _neutral_?"

Spain was leaning in so aggressively that the America was almost to the wall. Canada spurred himself faster. He'd read all about the Spanish-American war in the papers, and Antonio tended to hold grudges.

"I saw you talking to Romano and Feli," Spain continued harshly. "Are they next on your list, _Bastardo_?"

Throughout this verbal assault, America's expression had gone from carefully blank to frighteningly dark. He met Spain's barbs with stony silence.

Since resuming their relationship, Canada had learned a few things about his brother. For example, Alfred had a bit of a temper. And these were the warning signs that something was about to snap.

Canada reached them, covertly squeezing America's wrist and muttering into his ear, "Check yourself, Al."

Unfortunately, Spain heard this. He smirked evilly. "That's right, _Americano_. Behave yourself among your betters."

That was all America needed. He snarled something in Spanish, his fist lashing out to connect with Spain's jaw. There was a loud _crack_ that left Spain on the ground, clutching his face. His curses were inarticulate noises, indicating a broken jaw.

" _Nom de Dieu_ , Alfred," Canada hissed under his breath, taking his seething brother by the arm and dragging him away before any more damage could be done. The moment they were in an empty room, Canada shut firmly shut the door and reared on him. "Do you have _any idea_ what that might trigger?"

"He's no threat," America growled.

"Spain has _friends_ ," Canada shot back. "Both politically and personally. You know exactly what could happen; don't act like you don't!"

America looked away, hands still balled into fists. He knew Matthew was right, and didn't want to admit it. "I don't like this place. I'm going home."

"No, no, no." Canada took his brother by the shoulders to prevent him from exiting the room. "This is _why_ you need to be here."

America frowned. "What do you mean?"

"I mean that you don't know how to function around your own kind!"

The western Nation leaned back, irritation almost giving way to surprise at the outburst. Canada saw this and forced himself to take a deep, calming breath.

' _I can't let him disappear again.'_

"These meetings are not-always pleasant," Canada admitted carefully. "But it's the only reason we haven't all gone mad. Isolation _hurts_ us, Al. You know this firsthand."

"I feel fine," America insisted.

"Look me in the eyes and tell me you're completely fine."

Their eyes met for a brief moment. In that moment there was resolution, which quickly broke down as something seemed to occur to the western Nation, leaving only guilt. Then America looked away again. "But I have you, now."

"That isn't enough." Canada was deeply apologetic for that. It would've made this transition easier. "It would be different if you hadn't isolated yourself so early. But as it stands now…you _have_ to do this."

America said nothing, however the tension in his frame eased away as he considered his brother's words, replaced by weariness. "This sucks."

"You'll get used to it," Canada assured. "Then you'll be throwing snide remarks and mingling with the best of them."

The western Nation grimaced comically at the thought.

"They're not all bad," the northernmost twin swore, unable to hide a little smile at how easy to read his brother was even after all these years. "Haven't you met anyone you like?"

America thought about it. "…Switzerland's alright. Russia is…well, when he's not actively trying to be an asshole he seems kinda okay."

' _Because nothing's ever easy with you, is it?_ ' Canada thought with no little dismay. "Russia is _not_ someone you should hang around if you want to make friends, here."

"Why not?"

Canada sighed. How to put this? "He's not…right in the head. His childhood was hard, and I hear the political climate is as bad as his winters. These among…other reasons, make him a person to avoid."

Blue eyes narrowed slightly, s though America could tell he was skirting around something. " _What_ other reasons?"

"Er…it's hard to explain," Canada said lamely, wincing at how weak that sounded. "You'd have to experience it for yourself.

"Uh-huh." America's flat tone said he was entirely unconvinced. Canada feared this conversation would only make things worse. And even if he somehow managed not to trigger Russia's infamous wrath while pursuing this friendship…Ivan's ideas of what is acceptable would not be good for someone still lacking so much in the social interaction department.

"Italy wants me to sit for a painting."

"Eh?" Canada blinked, surprised at how quickly his brother had changed tracks. He was still getting used to that particular quirk. However he was glad to let the subject of Russia drop. "He must like you."

"I'm not sure how," America frowned from the side of his mouth. "I thought I'd scared him, but then he turned around and told his brother that I was _nice_ , of all things."

"I knew you weren't a lost cause," Canada smiled unabashedly. "Next we can work on table manners."

The finger America flipped him was well-deserved, and the returned smile was almost worth the day's trouble.

* * *

 **A one-shot following 'A Determined Helping Hand'. I feel kinda bad for using Spain like that. I know he's generally way friendlier than that. But it is my belief that America and Spain were not and will not ever really be friends on a personal level. Spain is also extremely protective of Romano, so seeing his little tomato talking to America probably kicked his parental outrage into overdrive.**

 **Thanks for reading! Please tell me what you thought of this story? It took much longer than I thought it would to flesh it out completely.**

 **Later dudes. ^J^**


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